Back in my early thirties, my uncle Jim died unexpectedly. He had a lifelong passion of sailing, particularly the sell-everything-and-sail-off-across the-horizon variety. He had years and years of Cruising World magazines stacked up next to the toilet in his bathroom. I remember him waxing on about his plans to cast off, the destinations he’d visit, the freedom he would feel. He bought a sailboat, a very seaworthy vessel, capable of sailing anywhere in the world, and spent years in the boatyard getting her ready for sea. The conversations changed from if he would go, to when. And then, out of the blue, he passed away. To my knowledge, her keel never floated while Jim lived. He never achieved his dream of casting off and chasing the horizon.
I vividly recall the day I learned of his death. I was shocked. His was the first close death in my life. He was still a young man and I struggled to comprehend the awful fact that he was gone. Living near Puget Sound afforded access to many marinas. I drove to the nearest one and walked the docks thinking of my uncle Jim. I looked at each boat on the dock, most of the boats sadly forlorn, and was miserable at my loss. And then something happened to me, literally on that dock. I was struck by an idea that I must carry on his passion for sailing. Me, a guy who’d never once given sailing or even boating a passing thought, despite living my whole life around water. In less than three months, I had completed sailing lessons and owned my own 35 foot sailboat. Now going on 20 years and four sailboats later, I owe my uncle Jim for bringing me to this wonderful passion of sailing. Ten years ago, while sailing alone and falling out of the boat on a riptide, I was fished out of the sea by a passing boater who, after careful reflection could not have possibly been there to save me. If there truly are visiting angels, I believe that my uncle Jim saved me that winter day. And now, like uncle Jim, I often toy with the idea of buying a boat in the Caribbean, sailing from island to island, relishing the freedom and adventure of exploring ports unknown. Casting off.
A few years ago, I began losing my mom day by day, month by month, to Alzheimer’s disease. For the nearly thirty years since I moved away from my small home town, my mom was that person I would call or visit for comfort, to help me through tough times, and to celebrate life’s victories. In other words, she was a wonderful and caring mom. If you have first hand experience with Alzheimer’s, you know the course this brutal disease takes. About five years ago, I realized that my mom was slipping away. Our weekly phone calls took a similar form. Me repeating what I had just said, over and over again, my mom putting on a good face, trying to hide her memory problems, and failing. She was diagnosed with breast cancer around this same time and I was able to spend some quality time with her as she recovered. There were times when she was her old self, and I cherished those hours, or sometimes just minutes.
Throughout my life, my mom had always loved birds. We had an incredibly talented parakeet when I was young that could talk and do tricks, and there were always some kind of birds around my mom – chickens, geese, ducklings. As a teenager I witnessed my mom adopt a goose as a pet, Lucy, bringing the big bird into our home when it got too cold, shitting everywhere. My mom didn’t care. I worried then a little for her sanity. But she was a caring soul, and always just thinking of her birds. I remember her telling me that she encountered a playful wild bird that visited her time and again after her dad passed away. She was sure that this bird, always perching in a spot in a workshop that my grandfather used before he died, was her reincarnated father. After that, she always had bird feeders outside for the wild birds and hummingbirds. In her last years of her life, she would dump birdseed on a picnic table outside her living room window and spent hours marveling at their frenetic and swooping activity. One blessing of Alzheimer’s is the newness of every moment. She would spend happy hours in front of that window, watching her birds.
I started noticing birds here on Vashon as I was losing my mom. I bought a few field guides to get to know the birds on our island. But that wasn’t quite enough, so I put up a single feeder off the porch. The squirrels quickly taught me what kind of feeder would actually allow the birds to eat, and after a year or so, I added a second feeder. I still don’t know all the different kinds of birds that visit my feeders, though I do recognize the glorious goldfinches in summer and have spent many hours watching them spat with one another over a perch on the feeder. Later I added a hummingbird feeder, only to be expanded to a full fleet of feeders across the north side of the porch, with a whole process of making hummingbird food to keep up with these thirsty and beautiful birds. I marvel as I refill the feeders at the audacity of these small creatures to buzz my head and squawk their complaints at my tardiness. I always smile and think of my mom who so loved these birds. For a while after my mom passed, I spent some time watching the birds, wondering if one of these might have taken on the life spirit of my mom. I think I realized that no one bird could do that, but all these birds together did a fine job of capturing her essence. And I know I’ll keep feeding these birds for the rest of my life.
A few weeks ago, my dear Pop passed away. He was ill a long time and suffered from dementia in his later years, also a horrible, horrible disease. My pop was many things, a boxer, a fisherman, a carpenter, a politician, a great grandpa, and a sometimes crook. But he was also a fantastic cook. He was happiest in the kitchen, making up one of his signature dishes, a frittata, an Italian goulash, a polenta pizza, or big pot of Mexican chili. He was always experimenting with different cooking styles and ingredients, sometimes making wonderful dishes he could never recreate because he never followed a recipe, or sometimes making horribly inedible meals. He once made something he called Goong-Ga which was truly awful. I remember gagging when I tried to eat it. My mom scolded me, but had the same reaction when she tried it and forgave me. We laughed about this for many years. But usually, my Pop was a fantastic cook. When he and my mom moved in to our cottage here on Vashon with the hope of spending their remaining golden years on the island, I was excited to have him in the kitchen. Maybe I could finally learn some cooking skills from this old man. But alas, the years were cruel and Pop had forgotten most all of what he knew of his freewheeling kitchen style. He tried to make his famous goulash, a dish he must have made a hundred times, but could not muster it, burning it and cussing himself for forgetting such simple things.
These past few weeks have been tough for me. I miss my Pop and I miss my Mom. So, imagine my surprise today in realizing that my life had changed once again, in a simple comfortable way. I’ve found myself focused inexplicably on the kitchen and pantry of our Vashon Island home. I reorganized our pantry to make spices, oils and baking goods more accessible. I’ve spent time putting our pots, pans, bowls and utensils in order, resolving a year or more of clutter. And I’ve been cooking more, but now disregarding the recipe books for more creative cooking, like my Pop would have appreciated. This is not like me at all, always wanting to follow directions for repeatability, but I’ve been throwing caution aside, making meals like Pop would, and laughing a lot more at the stove top.
I’ve lost a lot of dear souls these past years. But I am comforted to know they are still with us, in various forms, to carry on this gift of life.